A Good Cup of Tea
by TheWitch'sCat
Summary: Short story. In the early twentieth century, a woman often became a governess because she was unsuitable for marriage, for whatever reason. A look at Mary as a darker character. A guilty, angsty, romantic pleasure.


**I want to share with my readers...my original novel, September Blue, is now available on Amazon and Kindle. The link is available on my profile page or by searching for "September Blue" by Cat Whitney on Amazon. :-)**

**So, this is a little nugget that snuck into my head. It's darkly romantic with a dash of angst, my...cup of tea. The idea came from a random quote I found online that said something like "Nannies, or governesses, in the early twentieth century, often found themselves in their profession because they were unsuitable for marriage, perhaps because of lack of virtue or lack of position." I read that and kind of let my brain run with it. Plus, I like the idea of a less perfect Mary. So let me know what you think.**

**After letting this stew for a while, I have decided to incorporate the idea into my uber-crossover fanfic, which will feature Mary Poppins, Wicked, and Harry Potter together. And probably some other magical folks. That story is in the works and will be called Polarity. But for now, this piece...**

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**A Good Cup of Tea**

He sat in a dark corner of a dark pub, nursing a murky, dark drink. He wished the fire from the sprawling stone fireplace would reach his fingers from across the large room. Taking another sip of the liquor that burned all the way down, he waited. He checked his pocket watch and wondered how long he should wait. He was costing himself a solid day's work to go on this excursion. He'd had to travel hours outside of the city, to the north, and he hoped the trip was successful. Although he wasn't sure what outcome would be considered a success.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the pub door opened with the creaking of ancient wood. Something in the air shifted. The weathered, chain-smoking bartender looked up and stopped his cleaning. The other patrons, mostly factory workers drinking off the aches and pains of hard labor, looked toward the door. The barmaids stopped with their trays full of glasses, resting their hands on ample hips in expectation. Then, through the doorway she strode.

She had perfect form, her posture absolutely straight as she swung the heavy door closed behind her. Her dark blue skirt swirled just above her ankles, revealing dark stockings and exquisitely detailed, laced boots. Her jet black coat was belted around her slender waist. Her hands were gloved, her collar straight, crisp, and buttoned to her neck. Her upswept locks shone like dark, wet, cherry wood under a black hat. When she surveyed the room her silhouette was that of a perfectly sculpted bust, somewhere between Greek strength and Gypsy beauty. Her skin was pale and smooth. Her lips held a perfect smirk, as though drawn with a blood-red quill. Her eyes were startling, dark blue obsidian, clear in their color but opaque in their mystery, and her lashes were thick, hinting at Gypsy again. The style of her hair was fitting for a proper, English lady. With a quick lift of her chin, she crossed the space, dropping her heavy bag and umbrella in the corner as though the room was her own.

He watched her, his drink now forgotten.

With easy grace, she swung herself up onto one of the barstools. With a flourish she pulled off her pristine, white gloves. Plucking the pin from her hat, she daintily took it from her head and dropped it on the bar on top of her gloves. Then, as he watched in shock, she untied the ribbon from around her collar. Letting it hang, she unbuttoned several of the buttons on her carefully pressed shirt. She pulled out a small, round mirror, opened it, and smiled at her reflection, touching her glossy hair.

"You gonna let that 'air down, love?" a voice called out from behind her.

She turned, eyeing the slouching, older gent who'd addressed her, and taking in his patched coveralls and grime covered neck.

"Not for you. Not tonight," she snipped, never losing the smirk.

The same fellow and several of his friends guffawed, but none seemed offended. She glanced at them and then away, as though this banter had occurred many times before. The bartender came to stand across from her, giving her a wide, admiring smile. Leaning on the thick, wooden bar, he poured a drink and slid it her way.

Taking a sip, she gave a nod and said, "Perfect. Strong. It's been a ghastly three months."

The men behind her snickered and one of them, a short and wiry boy, tossed out, "It's been a lonely three months 'ere as well."

With a perfect roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand in their direction, she addressed the bartender, "I'll take a round for my friends here. They're still a little too…sober for my liking."

The men chortled again, and Slouch asked, "And 'ow are ya payin' tonight, love?"

She gave them a quick, haughty glance over her shoulder and answered, "I think it'll be the old-fashioned way tonight, thank you."

Then, he watched in disbelief at what she did next.

Reaching into the unbuttoned collar of her shirt, she pulled out a clip of bank notes. Pulling one from the bundle, she slid it across the counter to the bartender.

Watching her, the men behind her made their pleasure and appreciation known. With cat calls and melodramatic gripping of their chests, they begged for more. Short-and-Wiry called to her, "Be still my 'eart. Ain't no finer lady I ever seen."

One of the others snorted and teased, "She ain't no lady."

"I'm lady enough, and more lady than you can handle," she snipped, putting her clip of notes away and smoothing her skirt down over her legs.

They laughed raucously again.

Slouch spoke up, saying, "Aw, don't tease us now. There's no more perfect pair o' legs in all o' Manchester."

He saw her lips curve into a devilish smile. She swung herself around and off the stool. Unbelting her coat and pulling it off, she draped it over the bar. Her unbuttoned shirt now seemed even more revealing. Crossing a few paces to the table where the men sat, she leaned over it, teasing them with a view of the cleft between her breasts.

"Actually, I'll have you know that these are the finest legs in all of England. How dare you suggest otherwise," she admonished them.

One of the men pretended to swoon as she stood and walked away again. Swooping back onto the stool, she threw her drink back like it was cool water on a sultry day. She motioned for another one and the bartender smiled and obliged. While he poured, one of the men got up from the table. He was tallish, with long limbs and the same dirty coveralls as the others. His hair was coppery-red, his features rugged and lined more than they should be for his age. He crossed to where she sat and approached her from behind. Slithering his arms around her body, he nuzzled his face in her neck. She startled and batted him away delicately. Still, he leaned in and whispered in her ear.

The young man's words weren't clear, but she raised an eyebrow. Then, his lips grazed her neck. In the second she was distracted, he spun her around on the stool to face him. She pounced from the stool and stood, almost matching his height. She put one hand on his chest and pushed him backward, but her lips curved into another smirk. She looked up at him with eyes that could melt iron. The young man just looked back at her, his breathing heavy and his gaze intense.

She finally snapped, "All right, then. If we must. It has been a dreadful three months and I haven't had a good cup of tea in ages."

She started towards the side exit that led to a dark stairwell.

Turning back she seized her drink and said to the bartender, "I'll take this with me, thank you. And mind my things. I expect them to be as I left them."

With that, she breezed toward the stairway in a flurry of skirts. The young man followed with a satisfied grin on his face.

"Cuppa tea, all right!" Slouch called after them, "Lucky bastard!"

After they were gone, he stared towards the side exit, still in absolute shock. He couldn't believe what he had seen and heard. He couldn't believe _her._ Part of him was angry, intensely angry that she'd let him think she was a proper lady, that he might court her. He'd always thought he was protecting her by never being too forward. He'd thought she was too virtuous for him. Now, he wondered if she might be too base. Yet, beneath the anger, he was intrigued. She behaved like herself here. Certainly every bit of her personality was genuine. She was as vain and haughty and self-assured as he expected from her. She was still a woman full of unexpected surprises. She was _her. _But these surprises were unsettling.

Unable to sit any more, he rose slowly from his bench. Leaving a few coins, he crossed the space, trying to stay unassuming. He blended in easy enough. No one looked up. So he walked over to the side exit and peered down the hallway. Noting that the water closet was down the hall, he sauntered toward it. Then, at the last minute, he soundlessly crept up the staircase. At the top of the narrow, winding flight, he found another hallway. It was dark and lit by one oil lamp. There were no electric lights. Creeping carefully along, he glanced into two small rooms with sparse furniture. It looked as though the pub could also house overnight guests, if needed. When he got to the third door, he heard noises and stopped.

At first, he leaned his ear into the door. However, he realized there was a large crack in the frame that would allow him to peek inside. With a knot in his stomach and hoping he would find two people drinking tea, he leaned in and looked inside. What he saw cut him to his soul.

The young man had her pinned up against the wall. She was wearing just her corset and its undergarment, and her stockings and boots. Her hair was still pinned, but it was loose. One of her long legs was wrapped around the man's waist and her arms gripped the coat hooks on the wall behind her. The man was up to his bollocks in her, and her head was thrown back in pleasure. Her red lips were parted slightly, and she did not protest.

He stepped back from the door, because he couldn't watch any more. He felt sick and betrayed, even though he had no right. He felt deceived and belittled. He wanted to yell at her. He wanted to scream and punch the doorframe. Then he realized that he wanted desperately to be the one who had her against the wall. And then he felt terrible for it, because it seemed so cheap and selfish.

He ran his hand through his hair, knowing he should leave but afraid that he would get downstairs and start screaming what he thought to everyone in the pub. He paced, trying to calm himself. He tried to ignore the noises he heard. He walked a few paces away and leaned against the wall, trying to calm down. He stood there for a while, torn. He rubbed his eyes and decided he shouldn't be here. He never should have come here. So he turned and headed back towards the stairs. Just as he'd nearly reached the steps, a door clicked open. He heard musical laughter and then a delicate gasp.

He turned around, and there she stood.

Her hair was smoothed and pinned again. Her clothes were buttoned and straight. Her appearance gave no indication of what had just transpired. But the young man's did. His clothes were wrinkled and hastily put on. His hair was wild and uncombed. And he had a drowsy, pleased expression that any man would recognize. He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette, unfazed.

She stared at him, standing at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were wide and uncharacteristically panicked. Her perfect lips formed no words. After quite some time, she finally managed to softly say, "Bert?"

He looked back at her, considered running, but then held his ground and simply replied, "Mary."

And then they stood there, facing off, neither sure of what to say as all their jolly holidays washed away like chalk on uneven pavement, driven into the gutter by the revealing rain.


End file.
